They call me Dr Love

"It's a good and bad thing to be considered an expert in love. I don't think there's any point in pretending that you get to be an expert by meeting your soul mate early on, going through a few meaningful ups and downs, marrying in a cloud of good taste or even in a meteor shower of funk and crunk, and then dying, 50 or 60 years later, having had a faithful and fulfilling love life. We don't call those people experts. We call them lucky." (-Amy Bloom)

I am not one of these "lucky" few (nor, if you're interested is Amy Bloom, author of the above-referenced article). Some might say that I've done the research necessary in order to become an expert, however. If wisdom comes from learning from mistakes, I've made enough mistakes in love to be a sage.

Nonetheless, last Wednesday, I got married. Not for the first time. It's an entirely different matter to call oneself an optimist over the age of thirty (especially with so much mileage). However, I believe this story calls for a glass-half-full mentality.

Once upon a time...

In 1992...

two little girls met in Mrs Reid's fourth grade class.

(Hint: I am one of those two girls)

The other girl is my oldest and dearest friend, L. We celebrated our twentieth anniversary last summer in Vegas. We discovered that we are too old for roller coasters and met the actual living descendants of Captain and Maria Von Trapp (We went for tacos with them! At 2am! At Jack-in-the-Box!)

She is my family. She is my heart.

I have always loved the family that came with her (as she did mine) not just because they're awesome, but because they belong to her.


So. My point. I just married my best sister-friend's little brother.



Think about that friend.  The one with whom you first shaved (hacked) your legs. Who listened while you sang Rizzo's part in Grease (over and over). The one you call when your life falls over. The one who sends you flowers with quotes from Bio Dome on the card.

And then you fall in love with her brother and the two of you get married.

That's what I did. On Wednesday. August 14th because it was their beloved grandparents' wedding anniversary. I married my best friend's brother. Not only that, but I got to marry his WHOLE FAMILY. And he got to marry mine.

The whole thing is so filled with joyous memories that distilling it once again becomes my blessing and my curse.

Deep breath...

The day before the wedding, by miracle or design, my fiance and I find ourselves alone in a quiet house. It is a "Remember This Moment" moment. As though the collective sum of our troubled pasts has somehow imploded to create something unspeakably perfect.

Our sister (!!!) L and her amazing partner collected driftwood from Kootenay Lake and created a stunning arch under which we
were married.

 

Everyone cooked. My dad played guitar and sang a playlist (vetted by my mother) of the best love songs ever written. My new brother-in-law brought his turntables all the way from Calgary and played the most beautiful and irreverent set you could imagine.

We wore what we felt like wearing. My new husband wore a Canucks hat and purple high tops. I wore white. Yeah. I know.

We didn't send out invitations. Mostly, we ran into people who were really excited to spend our wedding Day with us and those people showed up.

It was the perfect day. It is the perfect love. The perfect family.

Listen Friends: I would never pretend that I was patient with love. Even if I tried to get away with it, no one who's ever met me would buy it.

I lost faith in love many times after nearly killing myself trying to convince the world of my worth (or lack thereof). I tried so many goddamned times to give my love to people who didn't want it.

My dear friend, J's mom, Donna used to say, "Better no one than an asshole." Now. Not all of the men I've spent time with were assholes. Some were very lovely. Some would qualify in spades. Nonetheless, I venture to expand Donna's saying oh-so-slightly to include, "Better no one than the wrong one."

I cannot say if this is true for you. It has been true for me. Insincerity chafes at the crotch for me. I never get away with it for long before Life kicks me hard in the proverbial junk.

And so, after many years of swimming against the stream, I gave in and adopted a dog. I had pined for a dog for many years. "I'm alone every night. Why not?" This was the physical manifestation of my deciding to make my solo life a joyous one. Not by going to the bar. I was a single mom. I learned to step out beyond the limitations of barely tolerating my own company into the liberating territory of loving myself. It has not been easy. I do not pretend that your road has been easy or will be easy. In fact, I'm SO SORRY for how hard it has already been.

All I can promise is that it's worth it. Please believe me. Just a little?

This bitch got her happily ever after when all hope was exhausted. My best friend is my sister. Her brother is my husband. He's the yin to my yang. The perfect fit. He loves my child the way parents do. He does, like, all the dishes. Seriously. 85% or more.



Please wait. Or don't wait. Make your life as awesome as possible the way it is now. That way, if your perfect fit never shows up, at least you're having a kick-ass time of it.

That was my "strategy" anyway.

From someone who's been there,

-Er